Pain is In the Mind
by FionaTailynn
Summary: Three years after having jumped off St. Barts Sherlock has finally gathered all the evidence to return. There's only one problem: John doesn't believe that he's alive, forcing Sherlock to use his last option: Inception. But can his complicated mind survive the dreamstate?


_**Pain Is In the Mind**_

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Sherlock asked nervously. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was nervous, but he had all reason to; this was a risky situation.  
"Positive. If you do everything correctly." Mycroft said looking up to his younger brother. That wasn't very reassuring.  
Sherlock cleared his throat.

"But what if-"  
"Only you can prevent that from happening, Sherlock."  
Sherlock sighed. He didn't want to have to do this. He was putting himself, and maybe even his best friend in danger. But John needed this; he wouldn't believe him. Sherlock had run out of options. Inception was his last chance.  
"Don't go any lower than three layers. I'm sure you can do it from the third one."  
Sherlock nodded and pursed his lips. He had no intention to anyways. He wasn't sure John's mind (or his own, for that matter) could take the limbo state.  
Sherlock remembered his last conversation with John.

_..."John! It is me! And I am alive!"  
"Save it. You've already told me this a million times. I've been hallucinating since the day Sherlock left."  
"I'm not a hallucination! I'm sorry!"  
"Don't be. I don't think I can take this any longer anyways. Perhaps I'm trying to tell myself something. Like that I should finally end it..." Sherlock gasped and then left the living room of the flat_.

Even after taking someone else with him, saying they could also see him, John wouldn't believe him, simply thinking the other person was a hallucination as well.

"Fine. Take me to them." He followed his brother through the various halls of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Mycroft opened the door to one of the laboratories and Sherlock stepped in. Inside was a group of five young people.

Yes. He had to do this. Even if he could stop John at every time he would try to... commit suicide, he pulled a grimace while thinking about it, he couldn't force him to live if he didn't want him to; Unless he gave him a reason to again. Sherlock walked over to the team.

Hearing about what had happened, Mycroft told Sherlock about this team of people, who knew how to supposedly plant ideas into people's minds by infiltrating into their subconscious. Even though the team was experienced, Sherlock didn't want any of them to come with him, he just needed them to show him how everything was done. Sherlock had to do this alone. Easily they'd gotten John here, but Sherlock had to stay hidden away until they injected drug into him (he didn't even want to know how they'd managed that without making John question anything). Now it was his turn to enter the dream world, John's dream world.

One of the men held a small needle towards him. He hesitated but took it anyways. Sherlock stared down at the small metal object and tightly gripped it between thumb and index finger. Finally he planted the needle into his wrist.

Sherlock shook his head as he realized he was now inside John's dreams. He blinked at the bright landscape. Bullets were flying all around him and he appeared to be hiding behind a sand bag. This was Afghanistan. Sherlock looked around to see where John was but couldn't find him anywhere. The brief case with what he needed to get in deeper into John's head leaned on his pulled up knees. He let out a groan and reached for it, tightly holding the handle. It took him a while to realize he was dressed as a soldier. Sherlock examined himself for a while and decided to go looking for John. He needed to get him asleep to penetrate the next level.

Sherlock knew very well that this was a dangerous mission. Any false move, any wrong word could end up in the opposite of what he needed. He snuck along the piles of sand bags to avoid getting hit. Somewhere in the distance there was a shriek of pain. Sherlock whipped his head around to see what had happened. And that was when he found John.

It was pretty far but Sherlock could clearly see what had happened: John had been shot.  
He hadn't been warned that John could be reliving his memories in his dreams, although now it seemed perfectly clear. But something wasn't right. John was lying there, and many soldiers just passed by without noticing. Sherlock wasn't just in John's memories. He was in his nightmares.

He made his way to get to John as quickly as possible. Obviously he knew that John wasn't really dying, but if he did, the dream would collapse. And as this was just the beginning, John would go into Limbo, due to the drug not having run out yet, and Sherlock wouldn't let his mind be destroyed by that state.

But when he was just a couple feet away from John Sherlock felt a hand grasp his arm and hold him back. Sherlock turned around, and as he'd feared earlier, Moriarty was holding on to him. Well, not Moriarty, it was a projection of Sherlock's guilt. A shade.

Moriarty grinned at him, still holding him back. "How adorable you have become. Still trying to save him are you?"  
Sherlock tried to tug himself loose but didn't manage. "I'm cleaning up your mess."  
"Oh? You really still believe this is my fault?"  
"Yes. I do."  
"No you don't. I wouldn't be here then." Sherlock's eyes widened at him but finally he managed to pull himself away. For some reason he feared to know about, the projection wasn't trying to kill him, as if it wanted him to succeed, but even Sherlock knew that that wasn't true.

He turned around and started running towards John again but when he quickly looked back, the shade had vanished. He finally got to his friend and knelt down next to him. Sherlock didn't worry about John seeing him setting off alarms, since he was dreaming in a period when they hadn't met yet. It wouldn't work forever but he'd have enough time before the projections would attack.

Sherlock started treating the wound. He had barely any experience with first aid, but this was a dream, he didn't need it. He pulled a bandage out of his pocket, which he was sure wasn't there before, and wrapped it around the wound.  
"Thank you." John murmured.  
If John believed he was being saved, then the wound would heal itself, but if he didn't, then he would die, and the whole mission would have been a fail. The bandage became soaked fast, and Sherlock realized he was running out of time. He needed to get to the next level. Fast.  
"Who are you? Do I know you?" John said finally noticing that there was something familiar about his savior.  
"Me? No. No I don't think so." Sherlock could already feel some of the gazes of the projections. That meant time was running low.  
"Here, it's a painkiller." Sherlock said, reaching for the briefcase. He pulled out two needles; identical to the one he'd been given in reality. Sherlock planted one into John's wrist, and the other in his without John noticing. "It's going to be fine." He then turned on the device in the briefcase and felt his eyes close.

Sherlock awoke in his flat. 221B Baker Street. He looked around. The lights were on although he was the only one there. Sherlock was wearing his blue robe and white shirt. It was dark outside, and somewhere in the distance thunder groaned. This all felt far too real, so Sherlock reached in his pocket for his totem, although he knew this was a dream, but he had to be sure. He snapped open the small magnifying glass and stared at it for a couple of moments. Sherlock closed it again and put it away. Yes this was a dream. The small scratch on the left-hand top of the lens was missing. Suddenly Sherlock could hear footsteps slowly climbing up the stairs.

His eyes flashed over to a digital clock: 7:34 pm, 18/06/12. Wait, if this was 221B, and it was after he'd jumped, John seeing him here, would set off some alarms immediately. Well, maybe he'd think he was just another hallucination but Sherlock couldn't afford to risk it. He gasped, got up and quickly went around the corner to the kitchen so John couldn't see him.  
The door swung open and a figure walked through. It stood still, but Sherlock didn't dare glance around the corner.  
"I know you're here Sherlock." John's voice said. That surprised Sherlock so he peeked around the corner. "How?" But then he stopped. The man opposite to him was staring at him angrily, almost evilly. "No." he thought. Another shade.  
The shade, well John, laughed darkly. In his hand he held a gun, but for some reason he didn't aim it at Sherlock. Yet. Like he was waiting.  
"John, please no."  
"Why not? You basically killed me. I'm just returning the favor."  
"I didn't mean to! I swear, I'm sorry!"  
John's eyes sparkled at him with hate. "As if that's true, you cold-hearted bastard!"  
Somehow that hurt him. Somehow his own guilt was the only thing able to make those words he'd heard so many times before matter, make him feel /bad/. But this wasn't the time for emotions to kick in. He took a step closer to John, no the shade, he couldn't let himself believe that this was really John.  
"Don't come any closer." The shade pointed his gun at Sherlock now. Sherlock stopped, holding his hands in front of himself.  
"Don't shoot! I'm just trying to help you!"  
"Help me? If you were trying to help me, you would've told me!"  
"No! I couldn't! You would've died!"  
"And what difference does that make now? I'm going to die soon anyways!"  
"No. No I won't let you."  
"So you won't even let me go if I want to? You're a horrible friend!" Sherlock put his fingers over his ears and started shaking his head.  
"Stop it! Please..." He couldn't take it much longer.  
"You always cared more for your job than for me! I never mattered one bit to you. Is that why you left? So I wouldn't keep following you everywhere?"  
Sherlock had enough now. He ripped the gun out of John's hand, pointed it at the shade, and pulled the trigger. The shade fell to the ground and Sherlock stepped closer to it. He then looked away, realizing his guilt could just as easily come back if he was staring at a dead image of his friend.

Now he had to find the real (well not exactly real) John. But there was only one problem: If he wasn't here, where was he? He could be anywhere in Dream-London. It was an odd thing that they weren't in the same place to begin with. Suddenly he heard a sob, coming from what used to be Sherlock's bedroom. Or maybe they were.

Sherlock remembered the date on the clock: June 18th 2012. It had been two days since the fall, and this was the day before his funeral. John was still reliving his memories through his dreams. He couldn't just walk in the room, even if he couldn't bare the cries coming from inside it. Or maybe he could. The guard wasn't as high at this level so he could try to act like a hallucination. The question was: Would this make John feel better or not? But he had to get to him, or else this would've all been for nothing. In retrospect, bringing the other people along did seem like a better idea. But he didn't want anyone else to see this. Sherlock took a deep breath and entered the room.

John was lying on Sherlock's bed, his head dug inside the pillow, crying his eyes out. Sherlock hated this sight, but concentrated on his goal. So John really believed that he was just a figment of his imagination Sherlock had the idea to make himself appear somewhat ghostly. After a couple moments he looked down at himself: He was slightly glowing and even a little transparent. Perfect.  
"John..." he said softly. John stopped for a moment, turned around and rubbed his eyes.  
"Sh-Sherlock? Is that you?"  
"Yes... It is." He said coming closer, suddenly realizing that he was holding the briefcase. Was he holding it before? He didn't think so.  
"Are you real?"  
"No, I'm sorry."  
"If you're not even here to make me believe you're real, why are you here?" Sherlock stopped, wondering what he should answer.  
"Well you seem to need comforting, don't you?"  
"I guess so..."  
"Tell me what's wrong."  
"Come on! You know! You're dead for god's sakes, Sherlock!"  
"That isn't wrong. That's what was supposed to happen..."  
"What?! How? What the hell are you talking about? Of course it wasn't."  
"It was actually." He knew it was risky talking about this, but John was upset, and he owed him an explanation.  
"Why was it supposed to happen?"  
Sherlock wondered for a moment if he could perform the inception now. No he couldn't. He had to go deeper as he realized he'd told John he was dead. But instead of answering he said:  
"You should go to sleep now."  
"No, I can't."  
"Please, for me."  
"I... Fine. But stay here please."  
"Of course." John laid his head on his cushion and Sherlock pulled the blanket over him. John watched Sherlock as he sat on the edge of the bed, and slowly his eyes started to close. Sherlock stared down at him, wondering when it would be okay to give him the needle without John noticing.

Somehow it seemed so wrong that he needed to convince John of the opposite of what he wanted so he could achieve it. But he only needed to get one level deeper; then again, he had no idea how to perform the inception on John. Well, he was sure he'd figure something out when he got there. Hopefully.

After a couple minutes, Sherlock decided it was okay to enter the third dream level. He turned around and wanted to reach for the brief case, but it had vanished. He thought about trying to imagine a new one there, but he couldn't say that he knew the drug well enough to think that would be safe. He got up and saw the door open. Sherlock cautiously walked through the doorway and back into the living room. The Shade-John was back.

It stood in the middle of the room, holding the briefcase in one hand, fiddling with another gun in the other. The shade looked even angrier than before.  
"But... I killed you!"  
"Oh? Finally admitting it are you?"  
"What? No! I didn't kill John!"  
"Still such a liar."  
He swallowed. "What do you mean 'liar'?"  
"You don't need to ask me that if I'm here." He grinned at him in a mocking way.  
"Fine. I'll tell you if you insist: First of all, you acted as if you were committing suicide, second of all you just told me that you were dead, and last but not least, you won't even admit that you killed your best friend. Oh, wait you don't have friends. Right. See I always wondered why that was, because for some stupid reason of mine I thought there was good in you. Now I can see the real you, and I finally understand. Sherlock Holmes, you're a maniac."

Sherlock almost stumbled back in shock of what the shade had just told him. It's funny how one's own thoughts about ourselves can hurt us so much more than the whole world screaming out our every mistake. Because only we know our own weaknesses perfectly.

Sherlock had to keep reminding himself that this wasn't John. That John wasn't like this. John was the person he'd comforted just moments ago and gotten to sleep. John was the person he'd jumped off a building for. John was the person with whom he'd lived for eighteen months. And most importantly, John was _not_ the person who was now aiming his gun at Sherlock.  
"John, just think. All I'm doing here is trying to help you." He knew very well he wouldn't be able to reason with it, but maybe he could distract it.  
"Oh no. If you were you wouldn't have taken this long."

There were three gunshots. Sherlock was able to jump to the side in time and hide behind the couch for a moment. The fact that the shade had missed was a good reminder that this wasn't John. If it were he'd be dead by now. Sherlock peeked up from it, now having a gun in his hand (he smiled at the fact that he could just suddenly have one when he needed it). But the shade had vanished again. Instead of looking for it he just quickly ran to the briefcase lying on the carpet and sprinted back to the bedroom.

John was still lightly sleeping on the bed. Sherlock smiled slightly at the sight of his friend; His _actual_ friend. But his smile was quickly wiped away when he remembered what the shade had told him:  
_Oh wait, you don't have friends. Right_.  
He didn't want to believe it, but some part of him did. And he didn't want that part of him ruling his mind. He quickly pushed the thought away and got the two needles out. He carefully planted it inside John's and his own wrist and turned on the device. His eyes slowly closed and he drifted off.

Sherlock shook his head and found himself leaning on a wall in a place, which was vaguely familiar to him, but he didn't know when he'd passed here. He was wearing his usual dark trench coat. Sherlock sat still for a moment. He was at the third level. He didn't need to get John to fall asleep anymore, he just needed to implant him the idea that he was alive. But... How was he supposed to do that? Somehow he had to change John's opinion on his status. Again he wished that he'd thought twice before saying he'd go in alone. But at least like this no one could critic his helplessness.

But now he had to get the idea implanted before any of that. He got up. He was outside, it was cloudy and there was a slight breeze. Sherlock could see far over the houses of Dream-London. He almost wanted to get out his totem again, though there was really no reason, he knew this was a dream, but something stopped him.  
_Far over the houses... _Wait a minute... He knew where this was. He was on the roof of St. Bart's.

And with the location it became clear in what period of John's life he was: June 16th, his _worst_ nightmare. But this gave Sherlock an idea of how he could manage this. He walked around the wall and wanted to step onto the ledge. But someone was already there.

Sherlock presumed another shade, but seeing as nothing could get worse than the last one he saw himself ready to face this one and get it over with. The man on the edge of the roof was wearing a dark coat.  
_Moriarty again, _Sherlock thought. But then the figure turned around, and Sherlock realized that oh yes, it could get far worse. In front of him, stood a shade identical to himself, but this version of Sherlock didn't show a hint of fear as opposed to him.

Sherlock gasped. The shade laughed and stepped off the ledge walking closer to him.  
"I never thought the day I'd see this: Sherlock Holmes, _weak_."  
Sherlock was far too stunned to answer though.  
"Oh? Nothing? Have you already given up the ability to speak so you could help your so-called 'friends'?"  
"No... This isn't being weak."  
"Of course it is. You said yourself remember? 'Caring is not an advantage.'"  
"...That doesn't mean it's weak."  
"Really? Is that true?"  
"Yes. Yes of course it is."  
"No. Come on, Sherlock. You know how this works. You know why I'm here, I mean it's not like you're /that much/ of an idiot. You know that if I'm here, it's because I'm right."  
Sherlock remained quiet at that comment. He looked straight into the shade's eyes, only finding an icy coldness. He wondered if every time he'd acted selfishly that coldness was all other people would find looking into his.

_No. These are the thoughts he wants you to have. Don't be guilty._

"John Watson talks about friendship" the shade continued, "as if it was the most important thing in our world. But look at what it's reduced you to! You were a great detective! Now the world thinks your dead, and you're risking going into a state of dream where there is a good chance that you'll lose your mind, not being able to tell reality from dream apart, only just to make an 'ordinary, average person' stop wanting to commit suicide."  
"I-"  
"You know you could've just walked off this building. Let them die; you know very well they weren't worth it. As clever as you are, well used to be, you could've easily cleared your name afterwards. But no. You had to be sentimental. Had to put them in front of yourself."  
"If you are who I was then, than I know I've taken the right choice." Sherlock said, finally fighting back. But he knew that was wrong. He was sure, even if no one would think that he was the right person to judge it, that he hadn't been _this_ cruel.

But the shade just raised an eyebrow at him and his lips curled into a smile.  
"It's adorable you know? Seeing you so 'ordinary'. Almost makes me envy you. You know this is all your fault. And the best part is, you let it get to you, let the other two and me appear and get in your way. You could've stopped this all happening, even staying as sentimental as you get now. You could've not let this precious time run by. But instead you were just too uncareful. Because you aren't able to neither be a good friend, nor can you be a good enough sociopath so that people won't get close. How disappointing."  
And thus the curtains were lifted. Sherlock wished the first or the second shade had told him this; it wouldn't be as bad to hear it from another voice rather than his own. He pursed his lips, seriously fighting tears (for some reason he didn't want to humiliate himself in front of a projection of his imagination). He closed his eyes for a moment.  
"You were right though: Alone does protect you. Too bad you didn't listen to it. Maybe you can now that you're face to face with yourself." _That_ was when Sherlock decided he was done listening.  
"No..." he said quietly.  
"Sorry?" The shade's face dropped.  
"I said no. I'm not face to face with myself, because you aren't me. You're wrong."  
"Sherlock, I'm trying to put you back on the right path."  
"If you were you wouldn't be standing in my way."  
And with that he grabbed the other's collar and dragged him over to the ledge. Sherlock held him over the edge and pulled him closer so he could whisper into the shade's ear.  
"Alone doesn't protect anyone. Friends do. Which is why you are going to die now." and with that he let go.

He watched the projection fall down, hit the ground, and disappear. He got up in relief, but then remembered what the doppelgänger had told him:

_You could've not let this precious time run by_

What did he mean by that? And then he understood.

None of the shades were meant to kill him. They were just distractions, trying to get Sherlock's time to run out. He'd completely forgotten about the wound John had on the first level. Slowly John was dying, but fast enough that even two levels lower time was running slim. But he knew what to do now.

Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped onto the ledge, and like on command the cab with John in it arrived. Sherlock took out his phone and speed-dialed John's number.  
"Hello?" John said running out the cab towards the hospital.  
"John! Stay right where you are."  
"No, I'm coming in-"  
"No, John! I need you right there." John stopped in front of a small building in front of St. Bart's.  
"What? Why?"  
"Okay there isn't much time. This whole thing will soon collapse and the drugs are running out."  
"What did you just say?"  
"Nothing. Ignore that."  
"Why do you need me here?"  
"John. Look up. I'm going to jump now."  
"You... No! Don't Sherlock!"  
"There isn't much time! Just trust me on this. Once I do, come here as quickly as possible."  
"Sherlock! Why are you doing this?"  
"I know you're going to have questions I can't answer right now. But when I get out of here I promise I will. Goodbye John." And he stepped off the ledge.  
"Sherlock!"

Because this was John's dream, none of the preparations for Sherlock's jump were here. But that also meant that just before hitting the ground, hidden away by the building, Sherlock could simply slow down and softly hit the ground. Now he closed his eyes, trying to imagine the blood on his face in every detail so this was as realistic as John remembered. But there was one thing he purposely let out.

It was the same thing again. People started gathering around him, and all he could do was play dead. In that time Sherlock wondered how much time was left. After what seemed like ages he finally heard a familiar voice:  
"No let me through please!" And shortly after that Sherlock felt a hand holding onto his wrist.

_Pum... Pum... Pum... Pum_

Sherlock now looked into John's direction.  
"Sherlock you're... alive."  
Sherlock nodded as he was brought onto a gurney. But suddenly everything around them stopped.  
"But how can you... You know?"  
"Time is running out. And I'm sorry for how long you'll have to wait, but... Please trust me."  
"I do trust you. How long will I have to wait?"  
"Too long."  
"... It's okay Sherlock. Because at least you're not dead."  
Sherlock smiled and time kept on going, the doctors pushing him away in the gurney. Just then there was a bang and John fell to the ground. Sherlock sat up on the gurney. In the distance he saw his shade smiling with a firearm in its hand. "Who's going to protect you now, Sherlock?" And with that the dream around them collapsed.

Sherlock awoke in the laboratory in St. Bart's. He looked around and checked his totem. There, the scratch, he was back in reality. But there was only one problem... The shade might've killed John too early, so that the inception hadn't worked. All he could do was pray now.

His eyes flashed around the room. The team had left for whatever reason (that didn't please Sherlock too much), but John was there and seemed very disoriented. Sherlock got up and walked over to him.

"John... It's alright now."  
John frantically turned his head to Sherlock, his eyes widening.  
"Sh... Sherlock?"  
"Yes. It's me."  
"You're... you're alive."  
"Yes, I am. I'm sorry, John."  
"But how can you be alive. I saw you jump I took your..." he trailed off there wondering if that was a valid point or not "...pulse"  
"That's quite a long story actually."  
John raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms.  
"Explain. I'll listen carefully, after all you owe me an explanation."  
Sherlock began explaining from the beginning (carefully leaving out the part about entering his dreams so he'd believe him). John nodded every now and then, then pulled Sherlock into a hug when he was finished.  
"I forgive you." he whispered.  
Sherlock thought that that was taken it in a little quickly but soon mirrored John's actions.  
"Thank you." Sherlock said.  
"Thank me? Sherlock, you're the one who saved my life."  
"And you're the one who forgave me for it." They pulled them selves apart and both started laughing. Sherlock helped John up and they made their way home.


End file.
